


Climbing Hand Over Hand to Get In

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-25
Updated: 2006-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>One step at a time, Sammy.</cite> (coda for "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Climbing Hand Over Hand to Get In

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to amberlynne for handholding and luzdeestrellas for betaing. And to leadensky for answering my questions about Sam's cast. All errors are mine.

"There's a free clinic at the university," Dean says, startling after the long silence in which Sam's been trying not to freak out over Dean's breakdown, which at least has the benefit of distracting him from the steady hum of pain from his hand. Dean's voice is a little rough, but closer to normal than Sam would have expected, though maybe he should have. Dean's always had unfathomable reserves of strength. "We can get your hand looked at."

He makes himself look at Dean instead of staring at his hand the way he wants to. When he was little, and hiding under the covers from the monsters under his bed, Dad used to say, Can't play peek-a-boo with your problems, Sammy. Doesn't make 'em go away. It's never not true, but sometimes he still has to force himself to look when all he wants is to look away.

He has to swallow hard before he can speak. "Don't we have to be students?" His voice shakes just enough for the tremor to be audible, and he wonders why normal always eludes him when he wants it most.

Dean looks at him like he's an idiot, and even though Dean's face is damp and his eyes are rimmed with red, the expression is so familiar that it makes Sam's chest hurt. "You _are_ a student."

There are too many ways to answer that, so he goes with the simplest, even if it's not quite the truest. "Not anymore."

Dean shrugs, and if Sam weren't watching closely now, he'd have missed how forced it looks. "I'm sure we can mock up some ID for you if we have to, college boy."

Before he can answer, Dean's off the hood and getting back in the car. Sam doesn't offer to drive, though he could, even with his hand messed up, because he knows Dean's shown him as much as he can, shown him _everything_ in a way he never has before, and Sam can only imagine what that's cost him. He can't ask Dean to give up control of anything else.

He reaches for the radio, willing to listen to Ted Nugent, or even Motorhead, if it'll make Dean feel better, but Dean shakes his head. "Leave it," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. So Sam does.

*

Dean flashes a charming grin at the receptionist, spins a story about a girl who was being mugged and Sam getting his hand broken--and losing his ID--in the process of helping her, and only Sam can see the strain around Dean's eyes and lips, the way his hands are white-knuckled when he leans forward and rests them on his knees, once they're sitting in the hard molded-plastic chairs in the brightly-lit gray-green waiting room.

"You okay?" he asks, and Sam looks at him incredulously, but there's no sarcasm in his voice or his face.

"Yeah," Sam answers, because what else can he say? His hand hurts, his brother's having an existential crisis of epic proportions, their father is dead, and there is still a demon out there stalking them. He's great, actually, thanks for asking. Instead of letting any of that out, he just says, "Yeah," again, though this time he can't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Sammy--"

"I'm fine, Dean." He wants to laugh almost as much as he wants to take a swing at Dean--for laying all this on him, for keeping it all to himself, for finally answering the questions Sam's not even sure he really wanted the answers to now that he knows them--which he would if his hand wasn't hurting so bad. And now he maybe understands how Dean's been feeling the past few weeks under his ceaseless barrage of questions. If he'd known, maybe he'd have stopped asking before they got to this point. "I mean, it hurts like a _bitch_," and he grins at Dean's startled expression, "but I'm okay. Really." It's mostly not a lie.

He doesn't know how Dean does it. He doesn't want to know what happens when he can't anymore. He thought he could pick up the slack, do for Dean what Dean does for him--has done for him his whole life, even if he never realized it until recently--but he's out of his depth.

Dean studies him, head cocked like he can smell that Sam's lying, but doesn't call him on it. "Okay," he says.

Sam's relieved when the receptionist calls his name, because the pain of getting his hand set will drive away everything else for a few minutes, and it will still hurt less than anything else that's happened since Dean pulled over and spilled his guts.

*

Dean's restless, prowling the room like a dog that knows a storm is coming, and Sam knows he has to do something soon, or Dean will be snarling at him because he's the only thing available, and he's not in the mood for that.

Dad used to say, One step at a time, Sammy. Don't overlook what's in front of you right now for what might happen later. He always thought of that when Jess would say, You need to live in the moment, Sam, and he'd laugh at the idea of his father unwittingly embracing such a hippie-dippy California mantra. He'd always looked to the future, though, always thought and planned ahead--when he was fourteen he'd already had a strategy in place for escaping the hunting life--and until they'd ended up in the hospital after the accident, he'd had life after the demon's destruction planned as well. So he thinks it's kind of fitting that he's been given the gift of clairvoyance, even if he can't figure out how to control it.

But he doesn't need it to deal with Dean. At least, not right now.

"Let's go," he says, pulling on his jacket.

Dean looks up from the magazine he's not reading. "Where?"

"Brewpub in town." Dean looks like he's going to argue, so Sam adds, "My treat." Which is bullshit, really, because he has no money of his own anymore, and Dean knows it, but Dean grins at him, a slow, satisfied, feline curve of his lips that makes Sam wonder what crazy thing Dean is thinking of now. Whenever Dean smiles like that, it means trouble for Sam, but Sam doesn't care--he'll accept whatever humiliation Dean's got in store for him--because at least Dean's smiling now, even if it feels a little forced and still sharp around the edges.

*

The brewpub is nicer than the bars Dean usually chooses, full of office workers celebrating happy hour, their ties loosened and sleeves rolled up. Sam waits for the pang of envy, the shiver of desire, of wanting their normality so bad he can taste it, but when it comes, it's a pale thing, a memory of an ache for something he thought he wanted, something he'll never have.

Dean snorts and sneers, ready to turn around and leave, but that, too, is a pale imitation of his usual disdain for the nine-to-fivers, and his eyes light up when he sees the tanks lining the back wall of the place.

"They brew their own beer," he says breathlessly, with all the excitement he usually saves for purchasing firearms.

"Hence the name 'brewpub,'" Sam answers automatically, with just enough superiority to sound normal, and make Dean roll his eyes.

"Hence your picking up the tab," Dean says, smiling at the hostess but waving off her attempt to lead them to a table. He heads for the bar, and Sam follows.

"Yeah, about that," he starts, and Dean shakes his head, smirking.

"No weaseling out of it now, Sammy. Otherwise, I'll think you brought me here under false pretenses."

"You know I don't have any money, Dean." Sam gives him the full-on earnest look that works so well on librarians and old ladies, and sometimes, even Dean.

Dean's smirk widens into an actual smile, a smile that reaches his eyes, and he tips his head in the direction of the back room. "There's a pool table back there, Sammy. You can earn your keep tonight."

"You don't know that."

"I can feel it. My Spidey-sense is tingling."

Best not to argue with that. Dean _does_ have an uncanny knack for finding people to hustle. Sam raises his right hand, bulky and awkward in its cast. "I can't exactly shoot pool with this on."

Dean rolls his eyes impatiently. "Dude, do you really want to be a welsher? I never taught you that. Got to turn your disadvantages into opportunities," he says, and Sam can see the moment it hits him that he's quoting Dad--his eyes widen and his mouth snaps shut--but the bartender arrives to distract him before it gets too weird. Dean forces a smile that barely falters, and he and the bartender have a quick, low-voiced discussion about barley, malt, and hops. The guy comes back with two pints of brown ale, darker than what they usually drink.

When Sam looks at Dean curiously, Dean just says, "It sounded good."

It's got a rich, smooth taste and goes down easy, without any of the bitter aftertaste he's experienced with other ales, so Sam lets himself relax and enjoy it, tries to live in the moment for once, and while the ache for Jess--and for everything else--is there, it's muted now, like the pain from his hand after some Vicodin.

Dean seems absorbed in reading what the menu has to say about the brewing process, so Sam stares up at the television, the six pm edition of _SportsCenter_, but he can't hear any of it over the music and the noise.

Another pint, and Dean's facing out now, leaning his elbows back against the bar, scanning the crowd for girls or marks or who the hell knows what? His eyes are sort of faraway again, but they don't have that dead look in them anymore, or maybe that's just the lighting in the place, which dims suddenly, making both of them snap to attention. But the lights aren't flickering, just dimming to mood lighting now that it's dark enough beyond the plate glass windows for it to be effective. The bartender sets lit votives along the bar. They don't have a fancy scent; they smell of wood matches and melting wax, and smoke rising in dark gray curls.

Sam closes his eyes and inhales, expecting memories of any of a hundred nights of rituals in the dark and instead finds himself back at Angela's empty grave, the stench of rot and gravedust in his nose, Dean's face pale and set in the dull gleam of the candlelight, the glitter of his eyes in the darkness the only sign that he's not a corpse himself.

Sam forces his eyes open. He is not going there. He is not letting Dean drag him down into this crazy delusion. Dad is dead. Dean is alive. There's nothing unnatural about a father's love for his son, and the one thing Sam has never doubted is that Dad loves--loved--Dean, loved them both enough to lay down his life for either of them at any moment. They put their lives on the line for strangers every day, Dean more than anyone, and while Dean doesn't believe he's worthy of that sacrifice for whatever stupid reason known only to him, Sam knows he'd give up even Dad in a heartbeat to keep Dean alive. And he knows Dad knew it, too. It isn't something he's proud of, or ashamed of, it's just something that _is_.

Now he just has to convince Dean, somehow, that eventually, it will be all right.

He might as well get started. He waves the bartender over and says, "You got a pool table?"

"In the back, yeah."

Dean gives him a knowing glance and raises his glass in mock salute.

They get two new beers and Sam says, "Come on. If I have to earn my keep tonight, we better play now, because I'm not going to be able to see straight soon."

"Lightweight," Dean mutters, but follows him into the back room.

There are two tables, neither occupied at the moment, so he sets down his glass and moves to the one closest to the back. Dean feeds it some money and racks the balls, while Sam chooses a cue and tries to figure out how he's going to manage with only one hand.

He opens his mouth to say he can't do this, and Dean gives him a sharp look. "Don't even," he says. "You break."

He hooks the tips of his fingers around the end of the cue, but doesn't really have any control. It's a weak break, and he doesn't sink anything. He feels like an idiot. The buzz he's got going takes the edge off his frustration, but he's still annoyed.

Dean snorts and runs the table; no rush, no hustle, just Dean doing what he does with quiet confidence.

Sam can't remember when Dean learned how to play, only remembers Dean teaching him, the summer he was eight, barely tall enough to see over the table, let alone handle a cue stick, while Dean at twelve was already competent enough to give Dad a decent game. He remembers the smell of dampness in the basement where Caleb kept the table, the slight leftward warp of the surface, the frayed spots on the green felt, the blue chalk fingerprints all over his clothes--his own from when he wiped his hands, and Dean's from showing him how to play.

He blinks back unexpected tears at the memory and takes a long sip of beer to steady himself.

Dean racks them up again and breaks, sinking the two and the fourteen. He chooses solids. Dean always takes solids when he has the choice. He sinks three more balls before he misses--on purpose, Sam suspects, but then, it's no fun for him if he can't mock how badly Sam's playing with his hand in a cast.

"I'm almost ashamed to admit I'm related to you, Sammy, let alone that I taught you how to play," Dean says when Sam scratches again. Dean clears the table easily. Sam leans back and watches, idly tapping the tip of the cue against his cast, which is when he realizes how to turn his weakness into a strength.

Third game, and he breaks, not quite as badly as before, but still, the stick is too loose in his grip for him to get any kind of decent follow-through, and the balls just roll aimlessly around the table. Dean shoots him an exasperated glance, takes a swallow of beer, and starts sinking balls, one after the other. He's got three left--plus the eight ball--when he scratches, and though he lets out an annoyed, "Son of a bitch!" Sam suspects that was on purpose, too. Sometimes it's hard to tell. As far as he knows, Dean stopped letting him win when he was thirteen, but Dean's always been better at hustling than Sam's been at catching him.

Sam steps up to the table, leans over to line up his shot, and then straightens up again before he takes it. He turns to Dean and says, "I know something you don't know." Which isn't quite true, because Dean taught him this, too, but he feels like he's earned the right to some theatricality.

Dean raises his glass and inclines his head. "Okay, dude, let's see what you've got."

Sam makes an elaborate show of switching hands, and not just because he's a little toasted. He smiles, and it feels natural for the first time in a long time. "I can play left-handed." He leans over again, this time using his cast as a bridge, left hand gripping the butt of the stick firmly. It's a little weird, because it's been years since he played left-handed, but he manages to sink one of his balls in the right corner pocket, first one that wasn't the cue ball all night.

He lets out a little whoop of triumph and pumps his fist, and Dean laughs, loud and clear and free of the shadows that have been haunting him since Dad died. It's not a lot, but it's something, and Sam will take it. One step at a time, Sammy, he tells himself, because more often than not, Dad knew what he was talking about.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is, of course, paraphrasing Inigo Montoya in "The Princess Bride." Title from "The Shape I Found You In" by Girlyman, who, by virtue of their very name, let alone their alterna-folky sound, Dean would never listen to.


End file.
